Recommencement
by Ellie12
Summary: Preseries, Cuddy makes House an offer


Title: Recommencement  
Author: Ellie  
Rating: PG  
Pairing: H/Cuddy, Gen  
Disclaimer: Sadly, most definitely not mine.  
Summary: Pre-series, Cuddy makes House an offer.  
Author's Notes: This is my first House piece. I've also chosen to go insane and write in second person POV.

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Your office still feels new, as if it's not really yours. In three months the stale, musty smell of the previous occupant, like cigars and old magazines, has faded but not vanished. Some mornings you expect the secretary—you can't think of her as "yours" yet—to ask where you think you're going when you walk in the door.

But it is yours, with all the rights and privileges and headaches that entails. Right now, you're waiting on the biggest headache of all, and only half-expecting anything to come if it. It almost surprises you when he actually limps through the door, looking even more haggard than the last time you saw him.

"You wanted to see me," he greets, waving the hand not tightly clutching his crutch in an almost menacing fashion.

You draw a slow, deep breath as you rise and gesture for him to sit. "Yes," you say, filling that one word with all the resolve you possess. You knew this wouldn't be easy.

"So?" He's just as direct as ever, but there's a harder edge to him now. For all his apparent physical frailty, perhaps what hasn't killed him has forged him into something stronger, something harder. You didn't think it was possible for him to be harder, but he always was hell-bent on proving people wrong.

"So," you say, studying his lean, stubbly face, which seems to be doing a poor job of masking his wariness, enough to make you want to ask how he's doing. But you know better. "I'd like to make you a job offer."

"A job offer," he parrots, mocking, but also studying you like you just studied him, fingers tapping on the metal crutch with vengeful deliberation.

"I'm in the process of evaluating and restructuring the programs here. It would be a coup for the hospital if you would join us to head the new Diagnostics department." You think that came off reasonably and neutrally. The rehearsal in front of the mirror this morning paid off.

"Well that offer doesn't sound the least bit like someone trying to ease her guilty conscience." This is the Greg House you remember.

For a split second you glare at him, then rein in your emotions. "I don't know why you would think there should be any guilt involved in offering the best diagnostician I know the chance to run his own department. Most people would be flattered." But neither of you are 'most people.'

"No, of course not, what would you have to feel guilty about," he says, patting his ravaged thigh.

You've had enough beating around the bush and know you don't have to do it with him like you will with everyone else who comes through the doors. It's one of the reasons you want him here. "If I didn't feel that my prescribed course of treatment for you was the best, I wouldn't have done it. I could have handed you off to be someone else's albatross. I'm sorry the infarction wasn't caught sooner, but the misdiagnosis was not my fault, Greg. The only thing you have to fault me for is keeping you alive to wallow in your misery."

From the coldly dismissive look he gives, you know you've struck close to home. Perhaps too close, because he actually backs down, glaring down at his feet as he mutters, "The blame's not on your for that."

The realization dawns swiftly. You've known him long enough and well enough to know that the prickly exterior hides a man who cares deeply, passionately. More than mere physical pain is causing the wary, wounded aura about him. You also know that to directly address this would be sheer folly.

"So move here, start fresh," you offer, eyes meeting his to acknowledge the unspoken. "You'll be able to select your cases, for the most part, and have two fellows. You'd be in charge."

He nods, the closest you've ever seen to thanks from him. "There's always a catch to those too-good-to-be-true deals."

"The salary would be five percent less than you're making now. And you'd be doing eight hours of clinic duty per month, the same as every other physician." You know he's never done this for the money, but he hates dealing with people in general.

"Eight?" he asks, frowning comically, and you know you have him. "I'd be tangling directly with you, not some helper monkey?"

You repress a smile. "Yes, and yes. I'll give you a week to think on it. We'd like to have you start in April, to get things up and running for the fall."

"Well, your highness, I'll get back to you next week," he says, rising awkwardly from the overstuffed couch.

He pauses just before reaching the door and glances back at you. A look passes between you, though you can tell that words are as close to his lips as they are to your own. So much has passed between you since that sophomore year at Michigan, but you'll never speak of any of it.

He looks away first, slamming the door open and walking full-circle back into your life.

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End


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